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Luton, as far as he could remember, was pretty much like Tadfield. The same sort of hedges between your house and the railway station. The same sort of people.
    â€œTaller buildings, for one thing,” said Sister Mary, desperately.
    Mr. Young stared at her. The only one he could think of was the Alliance and Leicester offices.
    â€œAnd I expect you go to a lot of garden parties,” said the nun.
    Ah. He was on firmer ground here. Deirdre was very keen on that sort of thing.
    â€œLots,” he said, with feeling. “Deirdre makes jam for them, you know. And I normally have to help with the White Elephant.”
    This was an aspect of Buckingham Palace society that had never occurred to Sister Mary, although the pachyderm fitted right in.
    â€œI expect they’re the tribute,” she said. “I read where these foreign potentates give her all sorts of things.”
    â€œI’m sorry?”
    â€œI’m a big fan of the Royal Family, you know.”
    â€œOh, so am I,” said Mr. Young, leaping gratefully onto this new ice floe in the bewildering stream of consciousness. Yes, you knew where you were with the Royals. The proper ones, of course, who pulled their weight in the hand-waving and bridge-opening department. Not the ones who went to discos all night long and were sick all over the paparazzi. 5
    â€œThat’s nice,” said Sister Mary. “I thought you people weren’t too keen on them, what with revoluting and throwing all those tea-sets into the river.”
    She chattered on, encouraged by the Order’s instruction that members should always say what was on their minds. Mr. Young was out of his depth, and too tired now to worry about it very much. The religious life probably made people a little odd. He wished Mrs. Young would wake up. Then one of the words in Sister Mary’s wittering struck a hopeful chord in his mind.
    â€œWould there be any possibility of me possibly being able to have a cup of tea, perhaps?” he ventured.
    â€œOh my,” said Sister Mary, her hand flying to her mouth, “whatever am I thinking of?”
    Mr. Young made no comment.
    â€œI’ll see to it right away,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t want coffee, though? There’s one of those vendible machines on the next floor.”
    â€œTea, please,” said Mr. Young.
    â€œMy word, you really have gone native, haven’t you,” said Sister Mary gaily, as she bustled out.
    Mr. Young, left alone with one sleeping wife and two sleeping babies, sagged onto a chair. Yes, it must be all that getting up early and kneeling and so on. Good people, of course, but not entirely compost mentis. He’d seen a Ken Russell film once. There had been nuns in it. There didn’t seem to be any of that sort of thing going on, but no smoke without fire and so on. …
    He sighed.
    It was then that Baby A awoke, and settled down to a really good wail.
    Mr. Young hadn’t had to quiet a screaming baby for years. He’d never been much good at it to start with. He’d always respected Sir Winston Churchill, and patting small versions of him on the bottom had always seemed ungracious.
    â€œWelcome to the world,” he said wearily. “You get used to it after a while.”
    The baby shut its mouth and glared at him as if he were a recalcitrant general.
    Sister Mary chose that moment to come in with the tea. Satanist or not, she’d also found a plate and arranged some iced biscuits on it. They were the sort you only ever get at the bottom of certain teatime assortments. Mr. Young’s was the same pink as a surgical appliance, and had a snowman picked out on it in white icing.
    â€œI don’t expect you normally have these,” she said. “They’re what you call cookies. We call them biscuits .”
    Mr. Young had just opened his mouth to explain that, yes, so did he, and so did people even in Luton, when another nun